Nathalie's breath hitched into a moan she couldn't stifle. Her free hand clutched my shirt; the other hovered near her lap, fingers twitching as if dying to press against the obscene pressure inside her.
I leaned down, lips brushing her ear. "Feel them staring, baby?"
She nodded frantically, glassy eyes rolling. "Yes… fuck… they can smell your load leaking out of me… my asshole's clenching around the panties… pushing more out… it's running down my legs… please… don't stop…"
We reached Dr. Anya's office at the end of the corridor. Every step was torture-ecstasy for Nathalie—calves flexing in those red Louboutins, ass cheeks clenching visibly under the too-short skirt, each movement forcing a tiny, wet squelch that echoed in the sudden quiet.
I knocked once. Firm. Authoritative.
"Come in…" came the smooth, professional voice from inside.
Anya's office smelled of antiseptic and expensive perfume—until we walked in.
